


forehead

by eden22



Series: Scars [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eden22/pseuds/eden22
Summary: When Dean goes headfirst into a gravestone, his first concern isn't for what the gush of blood obscuring his vision means for his face.
Series: Scars [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848178
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	forehead

**Author's Note:**

> content warning: mild gore, description of injury

Dean has enough time to register the fact that he’s headed straight towards a gravestone, enough time to think _fu–_ and then pain is blooming at the centre of his head, spearing outwards through the rest of his body, and the whole world goes black. 

He doesn’t have time to look in a mirror until later – minutes, hours, days, who knows – when they’ve finally managed to find their way to a motel, barely managing to stagger their way into the room, both of them still shaky from the remnants of adrenaline fizzing through their veins. Every time Dean closes his eyes there are two starbursts, one Azazel’s soul flickering and burning inside his meatsuit, the other originating within his own head. He recognizes the signs of a concussion, far too familiar with them, though he’d like to pretend he doesn’t, like to ignore this, not deal with it and just go to sleep. He feels exhausted down to his bones, like he’s a hundred years old, the frantic rush of the last couple of weeks, of selling his _soul_ hitting him all at once, and fuck if he doesn’t want to even begin to think about that, thoughts skirting around the ticking clock represented by each turn of the earth, each sunrise and sunset. He carefully doesn’t think about how many it’s already been. 

On the bright side, the more concussed part of his brain offers, it wasn’t like he needed to be concerned with permanent brain damage, since he’d be dead within the year. He almost says that out loud, but a glance towards Sam makes him swallow the words. He doubts his brother would find the thought half as amusing as his scrambled brain does, keeps silent as he watches Sam face plant onto one of the two beds with a low groan. 

It’s the sight of his face instead, when he finally stumbles into the bathroom, that makes him swear out loud, bringing Sam running to the doorway, hovering nervously when he can’t spot any immediate threat. 

“Look at my face Sammy,” Dean says, gesturing towards the mirror. “Mother _fucker._ ” The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches, the something newly shattered behind his eyes at war with the more easy and familiar amusement at his older brother’s expense. Dean looks at him and for a second all he sees is their father, superimposed over Sam, his ghostly form looking at both of them, the goodbye they were never granted the first time around and– Dean jerks his eyes back to the black and red mess on his forehead. As he watches a bright red bead wells up, sluggishly making its way across its already dried and crusted predecessors, speeding up once it finally manages to fight its way free to a miraculously clean patch of skin. Dean blinks once, twice, then meets Sam’s eyes again. 

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Sam offers. 

“Fuck,” Dean repeats to himself again, before saying, louder, “you’re not stitching my forehead dude, I can’t have a janky ass scar on my face, I’ll never get laid again.” He doesn’t mean it, knows there’s nothing else to do but let Sam patch him up, but he hates it, hates the knowledge that’s already settling like lead in the pit of his stomach about what this will do to his ability to blend in, to be forgettable in whatever ruse they need to use for a case. 

“I thought you said scars were sexy,” Sam says from somewhere out of sight, voice getting louder as he gets closer again. “That’s what you said when I got that huge gash on my leg from that bitch of a ghost in what, junior year?” Dean smiles at the memory, not really a good one except for how much Sam had bitched about the scar, how Dean had kept up with increasingly ridiculous reassurances until he finally managed to get Sam to smile despite the pain as their Dad stitched his leg shut. He winces when the motion tugs at his skin, a familiar pull that sends a fresh stream of red down his face. _Fuck_. Sam finally returns, reaches the doorway before pausing to meet Dean’s eyes in the mirror. There must be something, some sign of reticence lingering on his face, because Sam rolls his eyes, a sight almost comforting in its familiarity. “What, do you want to go to the hospital instead?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at Dean, as if Dean doesn’t know full well that that’s out of the question – the wound, something Sam is more than capable of treating, isn’t worth the risk. Still, for the principle of the thing Dean lets out a nosy sigh before turning, closing the toilet lid before settling down on it. 

“I want whisky,” he says. 

“Ok? So go get it,” Sam says, but he presses the first aid kit into Dean’s hands even as the last of the words fall from his mouth, turning and walking back out into the main room again.

* * *

Dean was right. 

The scar is huge, a red, angry welt that slowly turns into a white slash, bisecting his forehead at an angle, the tail end of it just barely beginning to split his eyebrow before it finally ends. He briefly tried to hide it with his hair, but there’s only so much he’s willing to sacrifice and the way he looked as his hair grew longer and longer… that sort of shit was best left to Sam. Instead, he braced himself for the way that stranger’s eyes would catch on it, grimacing his way through waitresses eyeing him nervously, hotel managers taking a longer, more considering look at their worn flannels and tired eyes, local cops awkwardly asking if that had happened on the job. It was kinda fun, at first, coming up with increasingly wild stories about how he got it, watching their incredulity over how outlandish his stories were struggling against the seriousness and professionalism lent by his FBI badge. And then it wasn’t, was just another thing that got in the way of doing his job, another barrier for him to force through over and over again. 

He did end up making that joke to Sam after all, about how it didn’t really matter since he was going to hell soon anyways. 

Sam doesn’t find it funny and really, neither does he.


End file.
